Ronin
by SoManyPuns
Summary: First in the Anarchists Au. Bucky and Natasha find a wounded Hawkeye left to die in an alley.


So this is an idea I've been toying with for a really long time and I've finally gotten around to posting the first part of it, mostly just to see if anyone wants to read this. There are two more parts that I've already got done, but whether or not I just leave it at that depends on the response, so leave a comment if you want more.

 _ro·nin_

 _noun_

 _historical_

 _(in feudal Japan) a wandering samurai who had no lord or master_

IN ANOTHER WORLD, SHIED Agent Philip Coulson would have been assigned Hawkeye's case. He would have hunted the archer across the world and their chase would have ended in an alley. Coulson would have shot him in the thigh and then held pressure on the wound as he talked about second chances and promised to watch over a man as he succumbed to sedatives. They would have gone on to found Strike Team Delta and eventually brought the Black Widow into SHIELD. But this was not that world.

"I'VE GOT A job," Clint announced as he breezed into the safe house. There's a light spring in his step as if the mere idea of having cash has affected gravity. He waved an official looking briefcase in front of Barney's face, obscuring his older brother's view of the TV. It's not even playing Dog Cops, there's no real point in watching it.

Barney batted the case out of Clint's hand with a grunt. "Congratulations." He resumed watching whatever crap TV had somehow captured his attention. Clint felt his mouth fold into a frown. "C'mon Barney, it's a good job, we can work it together."

"Already got a job."

"Since when?"

"Since some idiot pissed off a guy they shouldn't have. Now go away."

Clint huffed but stalked away with the down payment on the blood of some rich heiress. "Fine, see if I share when you blow all your cash on stupid shit." Barney didn't respond, but it didn't matter, the heiress was only going to be in town for another two days, Clint would have to move fast if he wanted to get the rest of the cash.

HAWKEYE HAD BEEN sitting silently in his perch for the past hour, watching his mark go about getting dressed up for the night. The wind is too strong to go for the kill, but otherwise, it would be the perfect time to finish up this hit. His bow was across his lap, an arrow held on the string with two of his fingers.

Impatience tugged at his mind, but not his body. Hawkeye was one of the best assassins on the market, followed closely by his brother, Trick-Shot. His stillness was rewarded in short order, the wind was dying down, and not a moment too soon. The Heiress stepped out of the front lobby of the hotel and stood at the curb, waiting for her car to pull up. Hawkeye drew his bow, standing to take aim and pulling back the string to his cheek.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Release.

The heiress collapsed, an arrow embedded in her eye.

Out.

Hawkeye unstrung his bow and placed it in his quiver. His work here was done, it was best to leave the scene of the crime before anyone can trace the arrow's trajectory. He's got another ten thousand dollars to collect.

AN HOUR LATER, Hawkeye was walking down an abandoned alley, money safely by his side. He reached up with one hand to grasp the fire escape below their safe house and then froze, staring down the shaft of Trick-Shot's arrow. "Barney?" He choked, meeting his brother's cold eyes.

"Sorry baby brother, nothing personal. Like I said, some idiot pissed off someone he shouldn't have." Then he released the arrow.

Pain whited out his vision, and Clint wondered if this was what dying was like. He'd always heard that your life flashed before your eyes, and then a white light came to take you up to heaven. But he wasn't supposed to go to heaven, he'd been a killer. A cold-hearted murderer for nothing more than a little cash.

Automatically, Hawkeye took stock of the wound. It was treatable if he got help. But it was the middle of the night, in the slums. No one would help him. He was going to die slowly and painfully, alone in a back alley with nothing but his regrets to keep him company. Barney was almost as good as he was at shooting, and at the distance, they'd been from one another, even an amateur couldn't have missed. Then the light faded and he was watching Barney land on the ground beside him, a duffle bag clutched in one fist, his bow in the other. He stepped closer.

Clint met his brother's eyes, they were still ice cold. Barney pressed his boot into Clint's shoulder and grasped the shaft of the arrow with the hand holding his bow, leaned close and said lowly: "Just between us brothers, it might have been a little personal." And then he ripped the arrow out. Clint screamed as the head ripped out a chunk of his flesh along with it.

Barney left him in the dirty alley, pausing only to scoop up Clint's payment before turning the corner and disappearing. A sob ripped out of him, twice as painful as the arrow. Was this what all the others he'd killed felt like in their last moments? Did they linger over regrets, think about the people they'd hurt, the people who'd hurt them?

I don't want to die.

The world was swallowed up by darkness.

# IN ANOTHER WORLD, SHIED Agent Philip Coulson would have been assigned Hawkeye's case. He would have hunted the archer across the world and their chase would have ended in the same alley where Clint now lay dying. Coulson would have shot him in the thigh and then held pressure on the wound as he talked about second chances and promised to watch over a man as he succumbed to sedatives. They would have gone on to found Strike Team Delta and eventually brought the Black Widow into SHIELD. But this was not that world.

THIS WAS NOT Clint's couch. It was lumpy in the wrong places, the fabric less coarse, the armrests too high. The room was wrong too, the way air moved through it, the groans and bumps were just a little bit off. Plus there were two extra people here, neither of them was Barney.

Where the hell was he? Clint opened his eyes and took in a strange room. The couch was at an angle, facing a TV in the corner which was flanked by two speakers. Bookshelves lined the walls, most of the bottom shelves were empty, but the upper ones were filled with books and movies.

Focusing on the two people he can hear moving around, Clint puts them both in a different room and dares to sit up. He doesn't get far, only about two inches off the couch before pain rips through his body pushing an involuntary cry from his lips. What the actual fuck!? He hissed a breath between gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

"And that, children is a practical demonstration of why we don't move while we have nearly fatal wounds. Pay attention James, you need to learn this." A woman says dryly. Someone else huffs quietly, had Clint not been entirely absorbed with trying not to pass out again, he would have assumed that this was James.

Eventually, the pain dies down enough for rational thought and Clint realizes that he is in some strange apartment, wounded and with strange people. That never bodes well. His eyes shoot open and he only just manages to keep from trying to leap off the couch.

The woman is closer, her hair is a brilliant, fiery red that draws his eye immediately. She's beautiful, honestly, with smooth skin and big, green eyes. But he can see past that, he can see the deadly warrior hidden underneath her beauty. Like a snake coiled in a patch of wildflowers.

Her companion is a truly imposing man. Six feet of solid muscle-no, not solid muscle, his left arm is made entirely of metal, all the way up to the sleeve of his t-shirt. No, seriously what the actual fuck.

Clint's hand instinctively moved towards the backup knife he keeps tucked underneath his jeans. The sheath is empty. His panic must show in his eyes because the redhead smiled sweetly and held up his oh-shit knife by the blade. "Relax kid. If we wanted you dead we could have left you in that alley."

"Alley? Why was I-?"

Looking up the shaft of Trick-Shot's arrow. His brother's cold eyes hovering above him as he rips out the arrow and whispers: "Maybe it's just a little personal." and then walks away.

Clint's mind rushed through the memory and leaves him on the other side gasping. Blackness crept into the edges of his vision, and he couldn't bring himself to push it away. Barney betrayed him. Shot him. Left him for dead. His own brother.

"Shit. Hey, kid, stick with me here."

Barney tried to kill him. Barney took out a hit on him.

"Hey!" A male voice barked and a hand gripped his chin. A pair of blue eyes staring directly into his.

Just like Barney's.

"Look at me." The blue-eyed man growls, low and threatening enough to pull Clint out of the spiral of despair.

His voice is gentler when he speaks again. "We just got you patched up, kid, don't go undoing Nat's work, you don't want her mad at you."

"M'not a kid." Clint mumbles.

"You are to me, Hawkeye."

Clint's head shoots up. "How-"

"Not a lot of people run around carrying a bow and arrows in our line of work." The guy backs off and the woman, 'Nat' apparently, but Clint's not about to run around calling her that. He likes being alive. Does he, though? Barney was really all he had to stick around for. Without his brother, all he has are his regrets.

"I won't ask what happened." The redhead says gravely, "but I will offer you a place to stay until you're on your feet again."

"Why?"

"Because you are supposedly the world's greatest marksman. I intend to put that to the test." She says shortly, and then she and her boyfriend (?) leave him alone.

CLINT STAYS AT the apartment for a long time, longer than it takes to heal from his physical wounds. He learns that the redhead's name is Natasha, and her friend (not boyfriend) is James. Those are all the questions he asks. Even though Natasha and James regularly disappear for weeks on end and return wounded and covered in soot and blood.

He gets along with them pretty well. Learns to read James' various shrugs and decipher the intricate language of his eyebrows. The guy's not really a talker, but he'll sit beside Clint and watch endless episodes of Dog Cops with him. Or even sit and read a book nearby if Clint is feeling lonely, though Clint will never admit that he is.

Natasha is an enigma at first. She doesn't talk to him much, in the beginning, only shrugs if asked a question. Even simple ones like what she thinks of a character or what she wants from the Thai place down the street. Eventually, though, they bond. Over makeup.

Clint had a lot of experience putting on and taking off makeup. He was a circus performer. If it wasn't him getting prettied up, then it was one of the others. And in the circus, everyone helped each other out. He'd been casually walking past the bathroom one night and accidentally come across Natasha trying to do her eyeliner.

She'd been trying to balance out the wings, leaning so close to the mirror that her nose was almost brushing it, her face screwed up in annoyance. Clint had paused and stood there for a moment, watching her laboriously wipe away the makeup and try again.

"Want to help out, Barton?" She offered sarcastically.

"Sure. I always liked doing the wings." He agreed easily and stepped up to the door frame. He didn't dare fully enter the room without actual permission – sarcasm didn't count. Natasha had looked him over critically and then nodded.

"Let's see what you've got."

She'd sat on the edge of the bathroom counter and held out the pencil. Clint had gently held her chin in his hand and traced the lines of her eyelid with a steady hand.

"There you go." He stepped away, handing back the eyeliner pencil. Natasha examined his job in the mirror, Clint realized too late that she was between him and the door and wondered if he would get the chance to re-do it if she didn't like it or if she'd just kill him. He never found out, Natasha favored him with a small smile and then swept out of the bathroom.

After that, it had become a sort of tradition for him to put on Natasha's makeup. Even if she wasn't going out she would appear at the corner of his eye for a split second and then vanish. He would then find her sitting on the bathroom counter, brushes and pencils beside her. Clint was smart enough not to say it aloud, but he appreciated the trust she was giving him by allowing him to do it.

IT WASN'T ALL makeup and TV, though. Sometimes they'd come home covered in blood that was theirs. Clint would patch up the worst of them and pass out painkillers like candy until everyone was more-or-less alive and they would all pile on the couch in various states of consciousness. It was during one of these times that Natasha spoke up.

"I used to be the Black Widow."

Clint stiffened and his eyes shot to her face. Her green eyes met his easily, there is no lie in her face. Clint has been helping The Black Widow with her makeup for months. He is currently wrapping The Black Widow's wound so that her guts don't fall out.

"Oh." is all he says. And that's it. No explanation, no more information, just: I was once the deadliest female assassin in the entire world. I'm thinking curry tonight, what about you James?

It's only the beginning really because now the floodgates have been opened. Or at least cracked a teeny bit. Because now she kept stating these little facts about her life at the worst moments.

"They handcuffed us to our beds at night so we wouldn't escape," she tells him while he's trying to flip a pancake. It ends up on the ceiling.

"My first kill was at 7 years old."

"I had sex for the first time at 9.I didn't want it"

"My first mission was when I was 11."

Then, while he's trying to get the wings of her eyeliner even again (because he's good, but winged eyeliner is the worst thing)she says quietly: "I escaped when I was sixteen. Just left when I was in the middle of a mission. I ran for years until I couldn't run anymore. And then I turned around and fought them."

It is a testament to just how much they trust each other that Clint didn't even hesitate for a second before scooping Natasha into a fierce hug. They didn't speak, they just clung to each other silently and if his shirt got a little wet in the process... Well, it was hot in the bathroom, probably just sweat. Even if he did need to do her mascara again.

Apparently, after that, Natasha had shared all of her history that he needed to know because she doesn't sneak up behind him to tell him horrifying facts about her life anymore. Unfortunately, this means that now it's James' turn.

"I didn't use to think I was human."

"They made me forget my entire life."

"The only name I know is James, and I'm not sure it belongs to me."

"I was sent to kill Natalia, but she broke my programming and convinced me to join her."

"I used to be The Winter Soldier."

Clint dropped an entire stack of plates (because he was the only one who did dishes around here). Thankfully they're plastic, so there weren't little shards of glass everywhere, but he didn't even think about picking them up. He just started at James.

The Mother-Fucking Winter Soldier.

"Why is this my life?"

James looked almost ashamed and turns to leave like now he was going to avoid Clint in the stupid two-bedroom-one-bathroom apartment. Of course, he was the Winter Soldier, so he probably could, but: "No, get back here." Clint crossed the plate-covered floor. "I was just surprised, I don't hate you or whatever."

James looked like he was afraid to be hopeful, and Clint silently cursed whoever had done this to his friend. Seriously, he was gonna kill them.

That's the thing, though, he thought as he sat on the couch, watching an episode of Dog Cops between Nat and James. He hadn't picked up his bow since he woke up on this very piece of furniture. He hadn't so much as looked for it (he knows it must be around somewhere) had barely thought about it.

He'd missed it sometimes. But then He'd think of Barney, holding an arrow to his chest and letting it loose and the urge to pick it up again would fade. At night he had nightmares of all the people he'd killed, every time he stood in their place as Barney killed him over and over again. He'd jerk awake, panting and sweating and then Nat or James would pop up and they'd sit together quietly until he fell asleep again.

"I want to help." He said quietly.

James and Natasha look over to him, asking a question without giving it voice. "You wouldn't just run from the people who did this to you, you're fighting them. That's where you go when you leave. I want to help." James silently switched off the TV, none of them were paying attention to it anyway.

"Okay." Natasha nods.

AS IT TURNED out, Clint did not know everything about his partners that he needed to know. For instance, the fact that they were The Anarchists had eluded him. Everyone in the underworld knew about The Anarchists, the deadliest, and the angriest pair of killers on the streets.

Rebel had shown up first. A red-haired she-demon from the darkest parts of hell. She'd ripped into the Red Room, left it limping along, a shadow of its former self.

A few years into her reign of terror, Rogue had appeared. Cold and deadly as ice. With his appearance, Rebel had turned her gaze to Hydra and together they had set about lopping off as many heads of the beast as they could.

And apparently, Clint had been living with them for the past year. He really should have picked up on this before now. So much for Hawkeye.

But regardless of his apparent blindness, they were offering him a place among them now. A new name and a new life, where he could make up for the horrible deeds he'd committed and clean the red out of his ledger. He intended to accept.

IN HIS OFFICE on the SHIELD Helicarrier, Agent Phil Coulson looked up as a junior agent meekly tapped her knuckles on his door. He motioned her in with an internal sigh, wondering what could possibly have gone wrong now.

"A file from Director Fury, sir." She said and placed it on his desk before beating a hasty retreat. Apparently, the 'Agent Coulson Is A Vampire' theory was becoming popular again.

Phil opened the file and skimmed over the contents. This time he could not keep his frustration internal. "There's another one?!"

 **Name: Unknown.**

 **Alias: Ronin**

 **Allegiance: The Anarchists**

 **Skill Set: Sniper**

 **Weapon: Bow and Arrow**


End file.
